Forgotten in Death(34)

“So, as usual then.”

“Ha. I need you on him, Morris, and right away. I’m sorry to ask, and it would read as a self-termination by hanging, but … Wait, let me magnify this area and show you.”

Once she had, Morris studied the magnified area. “Yes, I see what you mean. I’d want to take a look—in the flesh—to confirm. But from the visual, it appears to be the mark left by a pressure syringe. It’s very nearly blurred out in the bruising, which would have been a smart and efficient way to mask it. Send him to me. I’ll head back now.”

“Sorry to screw up your evening.”

“The dead are demanding creatures, as we both know. I’ll verify, and run tests to see what, if anything, was injected. Do you have a TOD?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Ah, well, that’ll make my job easier. I’ll send a team out now myself. I want him fast. Before any substance—and some can quickly—dissipates from his system.”

“Thanks.”

She pocketed her ’link again, looked at Roarke.

“Open window over there, fire escape outside. Hook recently added to the ceiling. We’re going to look for the drill or other tool that installed it, but we’re not going to find it because whoever came through that window took it back with him. Like he brought the hook, the rope, the syringe full of whatever he jabbed into Delgato so he could just string him up.

“His neck’s not broken. That doesn’t automatically mean homicide, because it doesn’t always snap when somebody puts on a noose and steps off the chair.”

“And when it doesn’t,” Roarke said, “you choke to death. Slowly.”

“Yeah. Not an easy way. No broken neck, it’s one more added to the hook, to the mark, to the fact Delgato makes an excellent fall guy.”

“Dead men tell no tales.”

“You got that.” She stepped away from the body to walk to the window. “We’ll get some uniforms to do the canvass, but we’re not likely to get a cooperating witness around here. Could luck out, but for a solid ID—a long shot.”

She studied the windowsill, angled her head, then put on her goggles again.

“What did you say about the building?”

“It’s well maintained.”

“Yeah, and these jimmy marks look real fresh. They’re faint, careful, but they’ve scratched the paint a little. And … son of a bitch! Son of a bitch. I need tweezers and a small evidence container. The lidded vials, not a bag. I’ve got a couple bits of fabric. Not so smart as you think, you murdering bastard fuck. Jimmied open the shitty window lock—didn’t take much, but you scratched the paint. And when you climbed in, the scratches caught at your pants. Didn’t even feel it, just a couple threads.”

She drew them out, put them in the container. Still wearing the goggles, she studied them. “But I’ve got Harvo, the fucking Queen of Hair and Fiber.”

She labeled it, initialed it.

“He was waiting for him, that’s how he did it. Knows Delgato’s routine, so he times it. He was probably leaving by the window about the time we were coming in the damn building. Dell saw Delgato coming in about a half hour before he started banging on the door. Killer grabs Delgato when he comes in, jabs him. No defensive wounds so he’s either able to control him or the stuff he put in him takes him out. He’s already installed the hook—maybe somebody heard that, we’ll check.”

She looked up, climbed up, examined the hook. “That’s going to hit zero, most likely. It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds to drill through.”

She hopped down. “Now he’s got time to get the rope ready. No drag marks I can see, so he hauls Delgato up, gets the noose around his neck. He’s the one on the chair, not the vic. Stand on the chair, haul on the rope—got some muscle—loop it around the hook, tie it off, good and strong. Step off while he’s dangling, knock the chair down, and then leave the way you came. Sealed up—we’re not going to find prints, and I’m betting the rope came off a job site, one Delgato worked. I’m betting that.”

She glanced toward the door when she heard footsteps. “That’s going to be the morgue team. Morris is quick. Go ahead and let them in. I’m calling for sweepers, then we’ll do a quick search.”

They didn’t find any tool for installing the hook. Roarke did locate a fake soup can with a roll of cash. Enough—maybe—to pay a couple weeks’ rent. She didn’t find his ’link, and that told her she would’ve found some kind of communication on it to/from his killer.

“No ’link, no appointment book, job schedule, no PPC or tablet.”

“You believe, and I’d agree, they went out the window with his killer.”

“Yeah. Why risk it? You had to communicate some way or other. And he could have your name listed somewhere.”

Roarke looked around again, considered the small, sad life ended there. “And you believe Delgato was responsible for Alva Quirk.”

“He was responsible, he was part of it, or he knew who was. Ducked Peabody all day, and damn well told whoever put that noose around his neck the cops wanted to talk to him.”

As Roarke did, she scanned the lost-man mess of the single-room flop. “Sweepers won’t be much longer, then I’ll turn the scene over to them—and they can get the evidence we already collected into the lab tonight. Still…”